Blood-tears

Proud peals of church­bells cry out death or mar­riage; Not, though, for youth­ful fight­ers sac­ri­ficed Knee-deep in mire where mor­tars scorn their pas­sage, In soon-em­brac­ing bomb­blast waste of life. Blind mud-beasts feral stalk the for­eign trenches And mock with sud­den salvoes mut­tered prayers, Sent up by mourn­ful choir that doubts its senses, Far-flung from home and hearth, en­tombed by cares. Crazed fan­fares call these pa­tient lambs to slaugh­ter; Choked gas-ghosts rav­ish boys’ lungs in fresh Hells, Where, ears still ring­ing with their sweet-hearts’ laugh­ter, Sad eyes tor­ment with can­dles of farewell. Wrecked pop­pies now their only mem­ory; Blood-tears of par­ents whom they’ll no more see. PJETËR MAMRICK via email